


Fading

by clearascountryair



Series: Hunting the Dark [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood, Demonic Possession, Family, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Penny Dreadful inspired, Sister-Sister Relationship, Supernatural Elements, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 02:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13801830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearascountryair/pseuds/clearascountryair
Summary: “So tell me, then, Mr. Coulson, what would you do if you looked at your daughter one day, only to find that it was not your daughter staring back?”London, 1885.For two years, twelve-year-old Jemma Coulson has pretended that the demons of her past have left her.  But when her father meets a mysterious American at an occult bookshop, her entire world risks burning from the inside out.





	Fading

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, Casey, for the beta and tumblr banner! This is an extended prologue for a Fitzsimmons multi-chapter story I've been working on

**December 11, 1885**

Having assured that his daughter was occupied by her tutors, Mr. Phillip J. Coulson called for his coach to take him into the depths of central London, to a small shop that he neither wanted to be seen in nor cared if anyone saw him in.  It was nearly Christmas and he had yet to get a gift for his peculiar little girl.  He had been in the shop a number of times over the years, from when he and Mike had been unable to save Mike’s boy to when they had been able to save his girl.  Apart from the two of them, however, Coulson had never seen anyone else there and had grown used to finding himself the only patron.  Thus, he was slightly surprised to find an impeccably dressed Chinese woman with a clearly forced demeanor of calmness browsing the demonology books.  Politely as he could, he reached over her head for a volume he believed he didn’t own.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before.”

The woman didn’t blink.  “And I should hope you won’t again.”

Coulson didn’t bother with being insulted.  “You’re American!” he exclaimed,  “I am, as well.”

The woman straightened and stared.  “With all due respect, Mr..?”

“Coulson.  Phillip Coulson, ma’am.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Coulson, unless you’re a demonologist of any respectable caliber, I have more pressing matters to attend to.  If I wanted to be distracted by obnoxious American men, I would have stayed home.”

Coulson laughed.  “As it happens, ma’am, I do consider myself quite the expert in demonology.”

The woman clutched the book she was holding to her chest, her face expressionless.  “Tell me, Mr. Coulson, do you have children?”

That was not the response he had expected.  “Yes.  A daughter.”

“And is there anything you wouldn’t do for her?”

Coulson stared, perplexed.  “No, ma’am.”

“You love her very much, then?”

“She is my whole world.”

“So tell me, then, Mr. Coulson, what would you do if you looked at your daughter one day, only to find that it was not your daughter staring back?”

Coulson froze for a moment, hearing words and screams he’d sooner forget flood back into his memory.  He took a deep breath and drew his shoulders back.  His day had certainly taken an unanticipated turn.  “Do you mean to tell me, ma’am, that you have a child controlled by a spirit other than her own?”

The woman stared at him, terror cracking through her calm facade.  Coulson drew a calling card from his pocket.

“My daughter is twelve now,” he said.  “Those four months were the hardest of my life, but she is, I am glad to say, quite herself now.  Where is your child?”

The woman swallowed and blinked.  “Restrained,” she said.  “Sedated.”

Coulson nodded.  “The restrains won’t last.  Take this—” he handed her the card.  “If you should choose to trust me, do not hesitate to call, Mrs...I don’t believe you gave me your name.”

The woman nodded curtly.  “I didn’t.  Good-day, sir.”

Coulson watched her go and plucked a second and third book from the shelf.  He would have to remember to inscribe them before Christmas morning.

That same night, he awoke to a heavy pounding on the door and Mike’s heavy footsteps as he went to answer it.

“I must speak with Mr. Coulson at once.”  Her voice rang through the house clear and sharp and terrified.  Coulson ran from his room, pulling his robe on as he went.

She was standing in the doorway, four deep scratches marring her cheek.  In her arms was a small girl, not much younger than his own, fully unconscious.

“Did you come by coach?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Your own?”

“ _Yes_.”

He turned to Mike.  “I’m taking Mrs..?”  He turned back to the woman.

“Miss May.”

“Miss May and her daughter to the country house immediately.”

Mike nodded.  “And the child?” he asked.

“You’ll keep her safe and bring her in the morning.  No Nanny, nor any of her tutors.  Just you and her.”

He turned back to Miss May and held out his arms for the girl.  “What is her name?”

“Daisy.”

Coulson cradled her in his arms.  “It’s quite alright, Daisy,” he whispered.  “You will be safe soon.”

* * *

 

Not once in her life could Jemma remember sleeping soundly all through the night, but the previous night had been particularly painful.  She had dreamt her heart had spontaneously combusted and not even Papa had believed her.  She had burned to death from the inside out.  It wasn’t until flames had begun spilling from her eyes and mouth that anyone had even noticed her.  She had woken then, shaking and burning, as someone shut the front door.  

“Papa?” she had whispered in the darkness.  But the walls were thick and, unless she cried out, no one would come.  If Nanny still slept in the room with her, she might have instructed Jemma to pray.  And, as she had these last two years, Jemma would refuse. To pray to a god meant to acknowledge his existence.  And acknowledging that existence meant she would have to acknowledge that of the other and that acknowledgment meant that she herself could fall away from this earth and Jemma Anne Coulson was too clever to let that happen.  So she curled back into herself and slept so fitfully that when Mike woke her some hours later, she told him:

“I couldn’t sleep.  Where’s Papa?”

“He went to the country house.”

“Without me?”

Mike’s quite laugh rumbled in the darkness.  “We’re going now.  Before Nanny gets up.”

Jemma sat up fully. “What’s wrong?”  They had gone without her various governesses before, but never in secret and never before the sun rose.

Mike hugged her and kissed the top of her head.  “Nothing’s wrong.  Your Papa and I just have to go to the country and you know we hate to be without you.”

“There was a woman here,” Jemma said flatly.  “Is Papa getting married?”

“Don’t be silly, Jemma.  She needs mine and Papa’s help.  She’s got a little girl.”

Jemma pulled back and stared up at Mike.  “I’ll get dressed then,” she said.

“I’ll put your books in the coach.”

On the train, Jemma knew better than to ask questions and, instead, read her book, stopping only when Mike told her it was time for tea.  She intended to continue reading after, but a lifetime of poor sleep must have caught up with her and she was dimly aware, sometime later, of her father’s voice as he carried her.

“She is in the blue room,” he was telling Mike.

“Has she been lucid?”

She could feel her father’s head shake.  “Her condition is not recent.”

“Then it is good her mother found us.  How is she?”

“Far better than we ever were.”  He kissed Jemma’s head.  “How long has she been sleeping?”  

“Since morning.  It was in her tea.”

Jemma struggled to groan against her exhaustion.  Coulson kissed her head.

“All’s well, darling.  Just sleep.  We’ll put on the tea.”

But Jemma shook her head and her body until her father was forced to put her down.

“I need a walk,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from sleep.  “Please.”

Her father stared at her a moment, contemplating.  She could see how obviously he wished to say no, but knew from experience how loathe he was to refuse her anything.  He sighed.

“I will be in my study with Mike and Miss May.  You must stay downstairs or in your room only.  It’s not a day to go wandering.”

“Can I go to the shore?”

“It’s winter.”

“I’ll wear my scarf.”

Again, Coulson sighed.  “Do what you will, but stay safe.  And stay away from the blue room.”

“Yes, Papa!”

Grinning, Jemma ran towards the back gate and let herself down to the shore.  But it wasn’t long before the tide came in a soaked through her boots and stockings and sent Jemma shivering into the house.  She lingered for a moment outside the study door, listening to the hushed voices from inside, before she decided to go upstairs.  Papa and Mike should have brought in her bag by now.  She needed dry stockings.  Squelching up the stairs as quietly as she could, Jemma was about to turn to her own room, the one her mother had decorated for her, the one she was supposed to grow up in, when she heard a soft crying from down the hall.  She glanced down the staircase.  When after a moment the door remained shut, Jemma raced to her room, plucked a worn copy of _Frankenstein_ from her shelf (though not quite as worn as the copy at the London house), and tiptoed to the blue room.  She only hesitated for a moment for pushing the door.

The girl was sitting in the middle of the bed, crying softly.  Thick ropes were tied around her wrists, restraining her to the bed.  There were deep cuts on her arms and neck, not unlike that pale pink scars that were still just visible on Jemma’s own arms and neck.  Jemma watched as she wept, unable to lift her hands to wipe her eyes.

“What’s your name?” Jemma asked quietly.  

The girl hiccoughed and looked up.  “Daisy,” she whimpered.

“That’s a pretty name, Daisy.  How are you feeling today?”

Her question seemed to renew Daisy’s anguish.  “I’m bored,” Daisy sobbed.  “And they changed Mama and now she’s so _cruel_.”  She began wailing.

“No,” Jemma whispered, dropping her book and running to sit on the bed besides Daisy.  “No, Daisy, not cruel.  They just need to make you better.  It’ll work, I promise.  They made me better.”

“Then w-why did they tie me up?”

“Because you were hurting yourself.”

“It’s because Mama hates me!”

“Shhhhh…”  Jemma wrapped her arms around the small girl.  “No, she doesn’t!  She’s just scared.  It’s okay, Daisy.  Um…” Jemma looked around the room, unsure of what to do.  She couldn’t get help without admitting she had disobeyed her father.  But even as little more than a child herself, Jemma had never been sure how to interact with children.  

“Oh, I know!” she exclaimed, rubbing circles into Daisy’s back.  “We’ll do a song!

_Half a pound of tuppenny rice,_  
_Half a pound of treacle._  
_That’s the way the money goes,  
Pop! goes the weasel._ ”

As she got to the “pop!” she let a blow of air between her lips, causing Daisy to giggle.  Jemma smiled and continued:

“ _Every night when I go out,_  
_The monkey’s on the table,_  
_Take a stick and knock it off,  
Pop! goes the weasel_.

Better?” she asked.

Daisy nodded, leaning her full weight against her.

“‘ _Round and ‘round the cobbler’s bench_  
_The monkey chased the weasel,  
The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun—_ ”

“POP!” Daisy half shouted, biting her lip to stifle her giggling.

Jemma smiled and half sang, “Goes the weasel,” as Daisy sat up fully, sitting back from Jemma and grinning goofily, her eyes big and round.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, starting to throw up her hands before remembering her restraints.  “You forgot my favorite verse!”  She started bouncing, half vibrating with excitement as she began to sing, smiling the whole while:

“ _I pricked my finger with a knife_  
_It hurt something awful,_  
_Yet the blade felt oh so good,  
POP! goes the weasel._ ”

The giddiness of her giggle could barely mask the sound of the rope snapping and before Jemma could react, she found herself on her back, Daisy on top of her, still grinning even as darkness consumed the whites of her eyes. She put a hand on Jemma throat.

“That was such good fun, Jemma!  I’ve missed you so very much.  I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, you know?  Let’s do another:

_Three blind mice. Three blind mice.  
_ _See how they run. See how they run.”_

With her free hand, she began trailing her fingers up Jemma’s cheek, her smiling never wavering.

“ _They all ran after the farmer's wife,_  
_Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,_  
_Did you ever see such a sight in your life,  
As three blind mice?_ ”

She pressed her too strong fingers into the corners of Jemma’s eyes.  “Stealing’s not fair, Jemma, darling,” she said.  “These are mine!”  

The door burst open as Coulson and Mike raced to the girl, each grabbing one of Daisy’s arms.  The little girl shrieked, her thrashing weight almost too much for them to control.

“LEAVE US ALONE!” she yelled, her voice loud and rough and echoing and deep.  “LEAVE US ALONE.  SHE IS MINE! _SHE IS MINE!_ ”  

Bursting into sobs, Jemma scrambled to her feet and ran from the room as fast as she could.  Even after she tripped on the skirt of a terrified woman she had never seen before, Jemma pushed herself up and ran, pressing her hands over her ears to block out the voice that permeated her dreams.

“Leave me alone,” she sobbed.  “Leave me alone!”

She ran past her own room, going instead straight through her father’s and into what had long ago been her mother’s boudoir.  There, in a room that for Jemma’s whole life had existed only as Jemma’s safest hideaway, did she cry harder than she had ever cried in her life.  She cried until she couldn’t stand.  She cried until she was sick.  She cried until she couldn’t cry any longer and then cried some more.  She cried long after the voice in her head stopped and cried as the door creaked open.

“Oh, Jemma,” her father whispered.  “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“I’m sorry, Papa!” she continued to cry, even as Coulson gently wiped her face with his kerchief.  “I thought I could help her.”

“I know, baby.”

“I thought I could help her fight it.”

“I know.”

His bedroom door creaked open.  “Phil?” came Mike’s voice through the room.

“In Audrey’s boudoir,” her father called back.  “Is she restrained again?”

“Unconscious. Her mother’s with her.”

“Good.”  Coulson brushed Jemma’s hair back from her face and kissed her forehead.  “Will you bring some tea for Jemma?  And then perhaps it is best to return to the blue room.”

As much as she wanted to resist, to continue to try to help, Jemma let her father lift her and carry her back to her own room.  He set her at her vanity seat and returned to the hall, counting calmly to one-hundred as Jemma changed into a clean nightgown before coming back into the room, a cup of tea in hand and gestured for Jemma to join him at the window seat.

“Drink, Jemma,” he whispered, picking up her comb and brushing her hair.  “You will feel so much better.”

So she drank and let her weight fall against her father as he brushed her hair until her eyes grew too heavy and she let her cheek fall against the cool glass of the windowpane before she finally fell asleep, unwittingly welcoming the voice back into her mind and soul.  She tried to open her eyes, to reach around for her father, but she was so tired she could not will herself to wake up.  All she could do was wait in the darkness of sleep.

Hours later, though it felt like several lifetimes, she finally woke up, saving herself from within.  She took a deep breath, focusing on the gauzy canopy of her bed.  Someone paced by the window.

“Papa?”

“Good, you’re up,” came a woman’s voice, approaching the bed.  “They just brought up the tea, so it’s still hot.”

Jemma sat up and looked at the woman.  “I’m not stupid.”

The woman raised an eyebrow.  “I didn’t say you were.”

“I don’t like sleeping,” Jemma said, crossing her arms over her chest.  “And I don’t like being made to sleep.  Laudanum doesn’t make it any less frightening.  It just makes waking up harder.”  She swallowed.  “It makes it worse and I told Papa that.”

The woman’s face was perfectly smooth and unreadable.  “May I sit down, Jemma?”

Jemma nodded and the woman sat on the edge of her bed.

“My name is Miss May,” she said, “and I do not have a say in how your father raises you.  But I assure you that I will never put any narcotics into your body without your consent.  I take enough issue with British use of opium without them sneaking it to their children.”

“Papa’s American.”

“So am I.  It doesn’t matter.  You are twelve years old and I shall respect your choice for nightmares over narcotics.”

Jemma bit her lip.  “I am thirsty,” she admitted.

“Then I will go to the kitchen myself and bring you some.”  She made to stand, but Jemma shook her head.  

“Wait, please.  Are Papa and Mike with your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Is she really called Daisy?”

Miss May swallowed.  “Yes.”

“They will make her safe.”

“‘Make her safe?’”

Jemma nodded.  “Did you want me to say that they would save her?”

“I suspected you would.”

“That’s optimistic.”

Miss May cocked her head to the side.  “They saved you.”

Jemma shook her head.  “You can’t know that yet.  They made me safe.  You can’t know the future, Miss May.”

Miss May seemed to consider Jemma’s statement for a moment before saying, “You are quite a dark child.”

“Your child just tried to pull out my eyes.”

Miss May laughed darkly.  “Were my daughter able to break through that, I assure you she would not touch you.  And it does not affect your current attraction to the macabre.”

“Does that surprise you?”

Looking around the room, Miss May said, “Your room is bright.  Happy.”

“It’s not mine.  My mother decorated it.”

“She must have loved you very much.”

Jemma pulled her knees up to her chest.  “No.  She never knew me.  It only takes a glance around this room to know that I was not the daughter they anticipated.”

“I think you’re wrong.  I think she must have loved you very, very dearly.”

“Did you love Daisy before she was born?  Did you love who she is now?”

“You cannot know who people will become, Jemma.  But good parents love unconditionally.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s different,” Miss May said.  “My aunt brought me Daisy when she was a baby.  She wasn’t supposed to be mine.  A woman in my aunt’s village gave her to my aunt when she decided to go to America.  They said the baby wasn’t safe in China.”

“Why not?”

Miss May sighed.  “Because they said that a devil had taken her village.”

Jemma swallowed.  “Is that why you knew?  When it got to her, I mean.”

“Yes and no.  I didn’t think it possible.  But I researched it to clear my own conscious.”

“But when you loved her as a baby, was it the same as when you love her now?”

“My aunt died five years ago and Daisy became mine.  When she was young, I knew she was the greatest joy in my life.  But today, she is my greatest fear and my greatest sorrow.”

Jemma sniffed.  “So, no.”

“On the contrary.  Your father moved back to America when you were very small, didn’t he?  Without you?”

“For nearly a year.”

“And did you discovered you didn’t love him?”

She shook her head.  “I realized how much I loved him.”

“He is very lucky to have you.”

A terrified shriek tore through the house.  Miss May stood, the color draining from her face.

“You must stay here, Jemma.”

“I can help.”

Miss May shook her head.  “You must stay in here.  Keep the doors and windows locked.  If something comes in, you must scream as loudly as you can.  Don’t open the door until your Papa or Mike or myself come for you.  You must promise me, Jemma.”

Jemma’s eyes widened in understanding.  “He needs somewhere to go,” she whispered.

“Promise me, Jemma.”

“I promise.”

When Miss May left, Jemma pulled the sheet from her bed and stuffed it under the crack in her locked door.  Then, with all of her weight, she pushed her vanity against the door.  She drew the blinds tightly over the window and turned off the lamp. Grabbing her pillow, she crawled under her bed.

Across the house, Daisy continued to scream and Jemma knew.  Of those four months of horror, it was only the exorcism she could fully remember.  Every moment of pure, unending agony as her bones splintered and her blood boiled and lungs froze and shattered.  She could feel it still.

Jemma pulled the pillow over her head.

* * *

 

Three days later, Jemma snuck into the sleeping girl’s room while their parents and Mike sat out on the porch for tea.  Coulson had insisted that Daisy would continue sleeping for some time following the exorcism and that Miss May would benefit from some fresh air.  So they had stepped out onto the porch and left Jemma to her books and Daisy to sleep.  But Jemma had grown bored and figured that the other girl, even in her sleep, could use company, as well.  After all, she was safe now.

“Good afternoon, Daisy,” she said, slipping into the room and picking up _Frankenstein_ from where it still lay on the floor.  “I thought maybe I’d read to you today, since I don’t think you want to kill me anymore.”  She went to the armchair in the corned of the room and laid her book open across her lap.  “This is my favorite,  It’s a novel, but it’s got all sorts of science in it, too, and I like it when girls talk about science and people actually listen.  It’s also a monster book, so written just for us.”

She was about to start reading when Daisy gave a whimper from the bed.  Jemma sucked in her breath.  There was an exorcism, she told herself.  She was safe.

“Mama?”  Daisy whimpered.  Jemma stayed silent as Daisy waited for a response.  “Mama!  Mama!”

Jemma shoved the book off her lap and ran to the window, throwing it open.  “Papa!  Miss May!” she shouted.  “She’s awake!  Daisy’s awake!”  She hesitated for a moment and then, feeling brave, ran to the bed, scrambling onto it and wrapping her arms around the struggling smaller girl.

“I want my mama!”

“Shhh...she’s coming,” Jemma assured her.  “Just stay calm, you must be so tired.”

Daisy began to sob.  “I want Mama.  I want to go home.”

To Jemma’s surprise, Daisy twisted in her arms and buried her face in Jemma chest, her small body shaking violently as she cried.

“You’re safe now, Daisy,” Jemma told her, squeezing her.  “I know, I’ve been there.  You must have been so afraid, but you are so brave and strong and it cannot hurt you anymore.”

The door swung open and Miss May ran in, half throwing herself onto the bed beside Daisy and peppering her face with kisses.  Jemma looked back up at the doorway as her father and Mike approached, the former silently gesturing to Jemma to leave Daisy and her mother be.  But as Jemma made to get off Daisy’s bed, the smaller girl grabbed Jemma’s hand and squeezed it tight.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, her voice almost desperate.  And then, with a forced smile more practiced than she should have had years for, she added, “You were about to read to me.”

Jemma nodded, glancing quickly at her father before squeezing Daisy’s hand.  “Of course.  I was just getting my book.”

Daisy grinned, genuinely this time, her face glowing with the immediate intimacy of friendship that only girlhood could bring.  “Good.  I don’t want you to leave me.”  She giggled.  “I don’t know your name.”

Jemma smiled, relieved at least that Daisy was not subject to that memory.  “Jemma,” she said.  “My name is Jemma.”

 

* * *

 

**December 12, 1886**

“ _A System of Hygienic Medicine_?”  When Jemma didn’t respond, or even so much as lower her book, Daisy continued.  “If you’re reading that, may I borrow _Jekyll and Hyde_?”

Jemma raised her eyes, looking briefly at Daisy over the top of her book.  “Your mama said it’s too frightening.”

“You read it.”

Jemma sneezed and sighed.  “It’s in the nightstand.  Second drawer.” She returned to her own reading as Daisy rolled over to the side of Jemma’s bed reaching for the nightstand before collecting the book and rolling onto her belly to read.  Jemma tried to ignore the way her legs swung back and forth.

She did love Daisy.  In the last year, they had grown as close as two people could be, with Miss May and Daisy at the Coulson’s London home nearly every evening for supper, staying late enough into the night that more nights than not found Daisy falling asleep with Jemma until her mother finally took her home.  But as much as Jemma loved the younger girl, she had grown up accustomed to her privacy and to silence as she read.  Daisy was loud and vivacious and told jokes that Jemma was sure would get them both in trouble.  She had grown to see the younger girl as almost a sister, protecting her as their parents did and indulging her when it suited her.  Having to comfort Daisy from a few nightmares seemed worth the momentary silence to continue her book.

But, as always, it did not last.  After several minutes, Daisy grew restless, getting off Jemma’s bed and pacing the room.  She opened the door, waited a moment, and shut it again, very quietly.  Then, she laid on her stomach and pressed her ear to the crack under the door.

“They’re fighting again,” she told Jemma.

“That’s what grown-ups do.  Do you want to read the book or not?”

“Will you read it to me?”

“You’re not a baby.”

“Yes, but you have such a lovely reading voice, even when you’re sick.  I like it when you do the different characters.”

Jemma set down her book and crossed her arms over her chest.  “You always make fun of me.  Always.”

Daisy grinned.  “I know.”  Sticking out her lower lip and making her eyes go wide as possible.

Jemma groaned, but only feigned reluctance as she took the book from Daisy and cleared her throat.  “‘ _Story of the Door._  Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile—’”

“Sounds like Mama.”

“There’s nothing rugged about your mama.  Now, shut up and let me read.”

But before she could continue, the bedroom door swung open and May walked in.

“Come, Daisy.  It’s time to go home.”

Daisy pouted.  “You said we were staying past supper.”

“And we have.  Now gather your things.”

“Melinda…”  Coulson appeared in the doorway behind her, watching as she stiffened at her given name.

“Daisy, come.”

“Think how much the girls would enjoy it.”

May turned to Coulson.  “I told you I’d consider it, Phil.  Do not tangle the girls up in it.”

Jemma and Daisy exchanged a glance.  

“What are you considering, Mama?” Daisy asked.

“Whether or not I should punish you for reading a book I specifically told you to wait until next year for.  Where are your shoes?”

“In the parlor, Mama.”

“Go.  I’ll meet you at the door.”

She stood to the side, watching as Daisy grumbled her way to the door and stomped down the hallway.  She turned back to Coulson.  “Send word when Mike gets back.  I want to know what he discovered.”

“Of course.”

May smiled and walked over to Jemma’s bed.  “How’s your cold?”

“Better.”

“You should sleep.  I’ve left another recipe with Cook.”

Jemma pouted.  “I’m tired of soup.”

“And I’m tired of you being sick.”  She kissed Jemma’s head.  “Sleep well, darling.  Goodnight, Phil.”

“Goodnight, Melinda,” Coulson called as she walked past.  He sighed and moved to sit down next to his daughter.  “I have a proposal for you, Jemma.”

“No, you don’t.”

Coulson laughed.  “Don’t I?”

“Not for me.  Daisy doesn’t see it, but I do.”

“Enlighten this poor, old man.”

Jemma smiled.  “Your companionship has ruined Miss May’s reputation.  The only thing that could salvage it would be if you were to marry her.”

“Clever girl.”

“I’m brilliant, Papa.  Not clever.”

Coulson laughed.  “Very well.  What do you think about it?”

“Well,” Jemma smiled as she looked up at her father.  “I think you love her, even if you won’t admit it.”

He smiled back.  “Do I?”

“It’s painfully obvious.  I think she loves you, too, but she will certainly never admit it.”

“So I shouldn’t marry her?”

Jemma shook her head.  “On the contrary.  I like having Daisy stay here late, but I would like it much more if she had her own room to sleep in.”

Coulson wrapped his arm around her as Jemma rested her head upon his shoulder.  “That seems like a legitimate reason to marry her mother.”

Jemma reached out to squeeze her father’s hand.  “I think you want me to say not to marry her because you’ll be forgetting my mother.”  When her father said nother, Jemma took a deep breath and continued on.  “But I think that if she loved us as much as you say she did, she’d want you to be happy.  I think you want to marry Miss May.  And I know I want you to.  So I have to believe that that is what Mother would want, as well.”  She looked up and was surprised to see her father crying.  She kissed his cheek.

“I cannot express,” he choked out, “how proud you would have made her.”

They fell into silence after that, each comforted by the other’s presence.  It would be nice, each concluded, to expand their family.  Even with the peculiar circumstances of Philip Coulson and Melinda May’s meeting, it was clear from the start that they were meant to be a family.  They would defy all conventionality, but that was two be expected when mother and father alike spent their nights tracking down demons as their daughters slept safe at home.

But it would never leave May’s mind, haunting her for years to come, that even the safety of her daughters could never guarantee that they had been saved.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
